


What Doesn't Kill You

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-14
Updated: 2002-10-14
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh is the victim of a hate crime.





	What Doesn't Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**What Doesn't Kill You**

**by:**   


**Category/Pairing:** Josh/Donna  
**Rating:** A hard TEEN for descriptions of violence. Not for those with a sensitive system.  
**Written:** July 31, 2002  
**Summary:** Josh is the victim of a hate crime.   
**Author's Notes:** This has absolutely no connection to The Joshua Monologues series on the State of the Union List. This has been lurkin around on my hard-drive since I saw `The Laramie Project'. It's the first angst I've ever finished. I'm probably taking a few medical liberties here, but I'll get over it. Thanks to my trusty beta-babes: Bridget and Jaye. Especially Jaye for convincing me to post this. Written in my typical bouncing multiple POV. 

* * *

"Let me get through the major stuff before I take your questions, guys." I'm standing at the podium in the Press Room, doing my 9 a.m. briefing, shaking like a leaf. I haven't had time to process the information Leo threw at me five minutes ago.

I work through the big issues of the day: the visiting Qumari delegation, the stuff on the Hill.

Danny's eyeballing me. He's got it. He's going to ask it.

"Danny." I point at him when I'm finished.

"CJ, the city desk at the Post is working what the DC police are calling a hate crime. Do you have anything on that?"

I take a deep breath.

"Yeah, Danny. I do." I pause and look down at the piece of paper Leo handed me moments ago.

"At 5:30 this morning the DCPD was called to an alley outside Josh Lyman's apartment building. When officers got there, they found..." I have to stop and take a moment to recompose myself.

"They found Josh had been the victim of a hate crime."

I can't bring myself to say what they did to him. It's grotesque.

One of the new reporters speaks up. "What, specifically, CJ, makes them think it's a hate crime?"

"Oh, I don't know. The fact that whoever did this tried to crucify him? The fact that a note the police found was an anti-Semitic diatribe?" Anger at the sick bastards who would do this fills my soul.

Danny just looks sick.

"They tried to crucify him?"

I nod, my hate-induced exhaustion showing.

"Detectives believe they were lying in wait for him. He was apparently hit in the back of the head with a lead pipe and dragged into the alley. Where he was beaten to within an inch of his life before his attackers tried to stake him to a makeshift cross with railroad spikes through his shoulders. One of Josh's neighbors is an insomniac. He heard noises in the alley and interrupted their attempt."

Despite his obvious discomfort with the description, Danny manages to keep asking questions.

"He's still alive?"

"Amazingly, yes. He's in critical condition at GWU Medical Center. Doctors aren't sure if there is any brain damage or neurological injury, yet. There are no firm suspects at this time. The President was informed a little over two hours ago."

"How much time had elapsed between when he got home and the time the police arrived?"

"Surprisingly, or maybe not considering this is Josh we're talking about, very little. Josh left the West Wing at 4:30 a.m. He walked home, so probably an hour at the most. He went home to shower and to get some clean clothes."

"Why was he here until 4:30 a.m.?"

Thank you for the softball, Katie.

"Ironically, he and Sam were working on the new hate crime legislation that goes to the House and Senate Judiciary committees tomorrow. That's all, guys. When we've got more, I'll fill you in."

I leave the Press Room, my ever-present shadow in tow.

"Is there any way you'll let me go see him?"

Simon Donovan leads me into my office and shuts the door.

"Ron Butterfield is at the hospital. I just got an update from him."

"Do I want to hear this?"

I collapse in my chair, my anger dissipating, leaving in its wake a hollow feeling of helplessness. I look at the man responsible for my safety because Josh took the time to care.

"Probably not." Simon sits on the edge of my desk, just inches from me. His voice is full of sympathy.

"Mr. Lyman is in ICU, in a coma, on a ventilator. Ms. Moss is with him. He's lost a great deal of blood and they are currently detecting minimal brain function."

No, no, NO! This isn't happening! Josh is one of the good guys. He's been through enough.

"Ms. Moss has medical power of attorney. Mr. Lyman wrote a living will after Rosslyn. They're waiting for his mother to arrive, for the hospital to run a couple more tests and then they're going to abide by his wishes. CJ, it's not good."

"Did we know?"

"Mr. Lyman and Mr. Ziegler get a lot of hate mail, CJ. Especially Mr. Lyman. He declined a detail. He said there were too many kooks to protect him from."

My God! He knew. He knew they would come for him again. My eyes are filled with tears.

"I'd like to see him."

Simon nods and escorts me to the waiting car.

***

Josh kicked me out the door at nine last night. Told me to take the car and go home to get some sleep and he'd wake me when he got in.

I haven't adjusted my hours a lot since I discovered I'm pregnant, but I'm gradually easing back. We're going to have to start telling people soon, the baby is going to start showing before long. Leo is the only one who knows we're even together.

Josh was so happy when I told him. I admit, I was nervous about his reaction, but he's really excited about being a father.

We decided we didn't want to jinx anything and would wait until I was more than three months along before telling anyone. We were supposed to tell Leo today.

I'm going to tell Leo today.

I have to. 

Josh probably won't live until tomorrow. 

I've been sitting in ICU with him for over an hour. Talking to him about the baby, pleading with him to wake up, that our child needs to know its father.

The EEG Josh is hooked up to blips occasionally. The nurses tell me it's a good sign.

Blood keeps draining out of the tube they put in his head. I don't find that comforting, but everyone tells me it's less pressure, less swelling, so it's good.

Hector Gonzalez, the old man who called the police, says he thinks there were five or six of them and they looked like skinheads.

The note they left was written in blood, pinned to Josh's body with a hunting knife. They only got one railroad spike through his shoulder, so they shoved the knife, and the note, through the other.

I'm crying again when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I half expect it to be Mrs. Landingham, but it's CJ.

At the sight of her, I get out of my chair and fall into her embrace. Josh is a brother to her and I need a woman to grieve with, I need to tell someone about my child. Our child, who will never know his father, but I can't.

Josh's living will is pretty straightforward: mechanical means of keeping him alive only long enough for his mother and I to arrive and say goodbye. They can be continued if there is a greater than 50% probability that he will fully recover and are to be discontinued if there is a greater than 50% probability of severe brain damage.

Right now, the doctors list his recovery probability at 25% and the likelihood of brain damage at 75%.

When Cara Lyman arrives and has a chance to say goodbye, the ventilator will be disconnected and the IVs stopped.

And Joshua Lyman will die.

***

I went home this morning to kiss my fiancée and put on clean clothes. I won a quarter flip with Sam. The winner got to go home, the loser had to take the bill to the Hill.

Yeah, I won.

Believe it or not, I remember some of what happened. It was a lead pipe to the back of my head and then they beat the shit out of me for what felt like hours. Things got a little fuzzy when one of them was banging my head against the ground, but I remember them stretching me out on some wood thing and then a scorching pain in my left shoulder. 

The next thing I remember is old Mr. Gonzalez yelling and hollering.

Now, all I have is a sense of déjà vu. I've been to this place before, this bright, white room. If I wait long enough, someone will come.

That someone is my grandfather. Strange, my dad came to talk to me last time.

"Joshua."

"Grosspapa."

"It doesn't look good," he shakes his head at me.

I'm so tired, I feel like I just want to sleep for a week.

"Why did they do this to me, Grosspapa?"

"They hate you for who you are," he says. I never noticed how thick his accent was before. 

"Who?"

"Who doesn't matter anymore, Joshua. It is time for you to come with me." He gestures for me to follow him towards a bright light.

"Grosspapa, I can't go. I'm supposed to go to work today and tell Leo I'm going to be a father. Donna's pregnant, Grosspapa. I can't leave her. The most important thing I will ever do in my life is be a father to our child." I'm begging for this reprieve like I've never begged for anything in life.

His eyes soften and he smiles at me. "You finally met a nice Jewish girl to settle down with?"

"I found someone who loves me for all that I am and all that I am not. Someone I love more than my own existence, someone for whom I would do anything."

"She's not Jewish." A statement, not a question.

"She's Methodist," I admit.

"You'll raise your son Jewish?"

"I can't promise you that without talking to Donna, Grosspapa. I swear I'll make sure he never forgets, I'll take him to Birkenau so he understands. Just like you did with me."

"Joshua, I can't promise you anything. I can let you go, but you are on your own to find your way home. If you come back here, there will be no third chance."

"I love you, Grosspapa."

"Be a good man, Joshua. Be a good father."

***

Cara got here about twenty minutes ago. We've both said goodbye and they're starting to disconnect the machinery.

Leo, CJ, Sam, Toby, Leo, Charlie, Zoey, Abbey, the President and seemingly half of Washington has gathered in the waiting room.

They slip the IVs out first. The tube from his throat goes next, disconnecting the ventilator. The only things they leave connected are the pulse rate monitor, the EEG and the drainage tubes.

It feels like an eternity has passed, and the pulse monitor still beeps slowly. He's not breathing, though.

I'm clinging to Cara, sobbing when I hear a faint rasp.

"Joshua?" I whisper.

We both turn our attention to his motionless form. Except he's no longer motionless. His chest is faintly rising and falling. Shallow breaths, but breaths nonetheless.

***

I follow Donna's faint, pleading voice. The closer I get to it, the harder it becomes to keep going. I feel like I'm going to pass out, like I'm not getting any oxygen.

My mother is crying, sobbing uncontrollably, hyperventilating almost. Breathe, Mom.

That might not be a bad idea for me either.

It hurts, but I do it. Inhale, exhale.

I am so cold, but I can hear the beeping of some machinery and Donna whispering my name. I can feel her hand around mine, so I squeeze it.

***

"Donna, I can sit up," Josh is whining as best he can, considering he can barely speak.

"No, you can't," I reply. "You really should go back to sleep."

They moved him out of ICU and into a private room this morning. It's only been a week since he was attacked. Cara went home a couple of days ago when it was evident Josh would not only survive, but make a pretty good recovery.

The nurse elevated his bed slightly, but warned me to not let him sit up any further. He said it would put to much pressure on Josh's lower back, which is exceedingly tender.

He can't swallow very well because of the bruising and swelling around his throat. He almost choked on Jell-O this morning at breakfast, before he threw it back up. 

There's not a part of him not bruised or broken.

It's been a revolving door in here today: Sam, Toby, CJ, Ed and Larry, all of the assistants. The only people from work who haven't been by are Leo and the First Family.

The Bartlets are coming up after visiting hours, in about thirty minutes.

Honestly, it's been too much activity for Josh. They're pumping some major painkillers into his system. He was delirious during Ed and Larry's visit. Which, I have to admit, was kind of fun to watch.

A knock at the door ends the argument about sitting up.

"Come on in," I yell.

It's Leo, carrying a small package. This is his first visit since the first day.

"How you doing, kid?" He asks, giving me a hug.

I wipe a tear from my eye and nod. "Every day is better."

He turns his attention to Josh, extending a Toys'R'Us bag. "This is for you."

Josh looks at me and I take the bag from Leo, who finally notices that both of Josh's arms are strapped to his chest. 

"Holy God," Leo mutters, taking a good look at his deputy.

The left shoulder is the worst; the railroad spike broke his collarbone, shredded muscles and tendons and went through the scapula bone before coming out his back. It will be months before Josh has the use of his left arm.

"Severe concussion, 8 broken ribs, the stab wounds to both shoulders, broken wrist, crushed hand, soft tissue wounds to the throat, cracked skull, broken occipital bone, broken cheekbone..."

"Donna, stop," Josh rasps. "You're making me sick."

"And a lot of torn muscle tissue, especially in his lower back and kidney area." I finish to make my point to Josh that he shouldn't be sitting up.

"Open the bag," Josh tells me, obviously trying to change the subject.

Inside is a well-worn small, stuffed baby duck. It kind of smells.

In the miracle of Josh surviving, I sort of didn't tell Leo about the baby, so this must be for something else.

"Where did you get that?" Josh whispers, mesmerized by the presence of the duck.

"Your mom gave it to me to give to you," Leo says. "What's the deal with it?"

"My grandfather gave it to me when I was a baby. Most kids had teddy bears, I had a stuffed duck."

Leo looks even more confused. "Why is she sending it to you now?"

"Did you tell her?" Josh asks me.

I nod, realizing the significance of the duck. I did tell Cara that Josh and I are expecting.

"But not Leo?"

"No, I never found the right moment."

"Tell me what?" Leo asks, suspiciously.

"I'm 13 weeks pregnant."

"13 weeks? You've known for how long?"

I glance at Josh, he's starting to pale.

"About 6 weeks. We wanted to make sure everything was okay before we said anything to anybody. We were going to tell you last week." I admit.

"That's what you wanted to talk to me about?"

I nod for Josh, who is visibly fading. He's starting to sweat profusely and his eyes have gotten glossy in the last couple of minutes. The pain medication must be wearing off.

Brushing the damp hair from his forehead, I lean closer. "It's okay." Checking the timer on his morphine drip, I try to keep my voice calm and soothing. "Another ten minutes, Josh."

"You've got to breathe, baby." He tries to hold his breath against the pain, the doctor says that probably makes it worse.

"Hurts."

"I know, sweetheart, I know it hurts." I pick up a damp rag to bathe his face with.

Leo moves around to his other side, gently placing the stuffed duck in Josh's right, unbroken, hand. We sit with him, on opposite sides of the bed, trying to talk him through the next ten minutes.

I glance at Leo when Josh, finally overwhelmed by the pain, cries out. I'd be more comfortable if Leo left, but he seems content to stay and try to help.

***

With five minutes left on the morphine timer, the tears of pain come. I could kill the bastards who did this to Joshua.

Donna keeps looking over at me, as though she doesn't want me to see him like this.

Josh is clutching at his duck like there's no tomorrow. The timer buzzes and his relaxation is instant. Moments later he drifts off to sleep.

"He gets the good drugs in an hour." Donna says. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

I nod; she's probably going stir-crazy in this room. There are some things I need to talk to her about anyway.

"The press is clamoring for an interview." I start as we walk slowly down the hallway. "Do you think he'd be willing?"

"I don't know, Leo. It's still pretty fresh. He doesn't seem to remember many details."

"The only, and I mean only, reason I'm asking you is because the hate crime bill he was working on made it out of the committees intact. The floor vote in the Senate is guaranteed. It'll pass unopposed. We're going to lose it in the House unless we can put a face on it, Donna. This is Josh's bill. He put years into it. He's the face of this issue right now."

She stops at the end of the hallway looking out over the parking lot.

"Hasn't he been through enough?" Donna begins to sob.

Her tears crush me. I wrap my arms around her, trying to be some comfort.

"You both have."

At my words, the floodgates open and a long week's worth of anguish pours out.

Before she can purge herself, I feel a tap at my elbow and turn. I nod at the man and release Donna into the President's arms. I can hear him crooning to her softly.

Abbey gives me a small smile and a tissue. After I take it, I realize I'm crying as well.

***

I don't know why I agreed to do this interview. It's been fourteen days since I went home to kiss Donna good morning. Seven days ago, I got out of ICU.

Stanley got here yesterday. Leo was pretty impressed when I asked for him. I didn't know what else to do, though. I can remember what happened and I need to talk about it, but I don't want to talk to just anybody. I trust Stanley.

I still can't swallow very well and talking burns, but throwing up is the worst. My ENT thinks they probably dragged me into the alley by a rope wrapped around my neck which in turn, probably ripped up my vocal cords. The pains from swallowing and throwing up are side effects of the any number of things.

The days pretty much suck.

They cut my pain medication a little each day. Nikki, my physical therapist, is a sadist. I am however, pushing myself like she asks. The orthopedic guy tells me they're freeing up my right arm today. That's the shoulder that got the hunting knife. Once they do that, I'll be able to get out of bed and walk.

So back to this interview I agreed to do. I let Donna and CJ pick the interviewer; they know these people better than I do.

They were leaning towards Katie Couric, I guess, when they got a request from the Oprah Winfrey Show. That seemed to end all arguments. Would now be the time to mention I've never seen the Oprah Show? Not even after the shooting.

All I know is that it's 9 a.m., the camera people are over an hour early and Bruce, the orthopedic guy, was late � so everybody's here at once. My head is pounding; my mouth is dry; I can't keep anything down; everything hurts especially my back and ribs.

See, the days pretty much suck.

They have to sit me all the way up to get this thing off my shoulder. Sitting up all the way makes me either pass out or puke. It is going to be horribly embarrassing, either way.

CJ leads Oprah into the damn room right as Donna and Bruce lean me forward. Please, let me just pass out. I do not want to puke in front of CJ.

Nope, not that lucky. With no warning, I retch a nasty mix of blood and lime Jell-O all over myself. I hate lime Jell-O.

"Oh, that's attractive," CJ comments, taking Donna's place on my left side so she can help the nurse clean me up.

"Fuck you," I gasp, trying to get my breathing under control.

Bruce keeps cutting at the crap they'd wrapped my shoulder in while Donna eases the remnants of the hospital gown off my body.

"Donna," I groan, trying to warn her. She sticks the 'puke-tray' in front of me just in time.

My buddy Bruce gets done cutting about when I finish vomiting.

"Do you want a fresh ice pack, while we've got you up?" Thomas, my nurse, asks. Yeah, I've got a male nurse. All I can do is nod weakly. He sticks it under my badly bruised back and they ease me down.

Thomas hands Donna a clean washcloth and injects the 'good stuff' into my IV. I'll be on Cloud 9 in about ten minutes. "Make sure you stretch that arm out a little before Nikki gets here this afternoon," he tells Donna. The bastard smirks at me, "She started salivating when she found out this thing was coming off today."

"I hate you all," I mutter. In my current state, I don't think any sound came out at all.

***

The Percocet just kicked in. It's almost funny to watch. Josh's eyes roll back and he just passes out, mid-whatever. 

CJ shakes her head with silent laughter when he does.

"He'll wake up in about an hour or so," I tell her. "You should get about fifty minutes or so of him being lucid before he loops out again."

"Oprah Winfrey, this is Josh's assistant, Donna Moss," CJ makes introductions.

"It's nice to meet you. I hate to be rude, but would you all mind stepping out of the room for a few minutes?" I ask. Everyone looks at me kind of funny. I'd rather not come out and say what I need to do.

"Donna?" CJ asks hesitantly and then blushes when I hold up a clean pair of boxers.

"Unless you want to watch," I comment.

As she ushers everyone out, CJ stops for a second. "First, do you need any help? Second, she wants to talk to you, too. She's talked to Leo, Sam, Toby and I. The President and First Lady are considering it, too."

"No and I guess," I answer, pulling the sheets down to finish cleaning Josh up.

By the time I'm done, he's sweating pretty badly. Josh has good days and bad days. This is evidently going to be a bad day. They aren't quite sure where the infection is isolated, so his primary doctor prescribed a broad-spectrum antibiotic. It's not working real well. I only pull the sheets up to his waist, so we don't have to change them later. Once finished, I step out into the hallway.

"Can we get a cup of coffee before we start?" I ask, suddenly exhausted.

They both nod, the camera crew has already wandered off. I lead them down the hall to the nurses' station. Thomas showed me the floor's tiny lounge the second day I was here. I stop at the counter. Melissa, one of the floor nurses, nods at me, indicating the room is empty and I'm welcome to it.

"I need a favor, CJ," I ask once we sit.

"You need a break, Donna? I can sit with him or one of the boys can come by..."

"No. Stanley got here yesterday. I get three or four hours after physical therapy to go home or whatever. I need to know where you got those blue pajamas."

***

Leave it to Donna to need something practical.

"Barney's. Why?"

"The bottoms have really wide legs, so they're easier to get off and on." She shrugs and I can see how tired she is. "They've got drawstrings and are loose enough that they don't pull at the bruises on his back. His boxers all have elastic waistbands."

"Even the 'politicians do it for votes' pair that Sam gave him?" I joke, trying to get her to laugh.

"Can I ask who Stanley is?" Oprah interrupts, obviously having lost the thread of the conversation. I was rather surprised when she showed up personally, I was expecting a producer or someone like that.

I look over at Donna before I answer cautiously. "He's a friend of Josh's."

She glances at her watch and I can tell she's anxious about something. "Should we go back?"

When we get back to the room, I understand. Josh has tangled himself in the sheet. He's thrashing about, mumbling something in his sleep.

"It's not a good day," Donna explains, hurrying to his right side, gripping his hand.

I hand her a damp rag before sitting on his other side, to lend my support. I don't even hear the camera crew come back in.

It has always awed me how Josh quiets under Donna's touch. This is no exception.

"Why is he sweating so much?" I ask her.

"They think there is probably a staph infection, but there's so much bruising and swelling that they can't tell. It could be blood poisoning from the railroad spike or the hunting knife or something else entirely," she explains. "They're culturing a bunch of different stuff."

***

Josh wakes up disorientated and uncomfortable. Not sure how long he'll be able to do this; we get started right away. I sit with him, holding his hand and clutching that stupid duck with my other. I'm not sure how much translating I'll have to do. Josh is awake, but he's very groggy. I can tell he's having trouble concentrating, which usually means he'll have trouble talking.

Oprah begins the interview. She's very kind, starting with some basic questions about what he does at the White House, how he joined the Bartlet campaign, what he did during the campaign. Josh answers her as best he can; I have to do a fair bit of translating of the things he's just mouthing.

Then she asks about Rosslyn and the shooting. What happened there, what was it like?

Josh is squeezing my hand hard, trying to work through a wide range of emotions and a great deal of physical pain. I see movement at the door and sigh in relief when I glimpse Stanley Keyworth.

He talks softly about the shooting, how he doesn't remember that day at all. He had a meeting with John Hoynes, but only knows about it because it was on his appointment log. They went jogging. Yes, the recovery was long and painful. Yes, he had some problems several months later, but he was able to work through them and they never effected his work. 

Then she asks about the day of the beating.

***

I really don't want to be doing this. I really just want to puke again, curl up and go back to sleep.

"I can't tell you much about the actual day."

Donna stifles a laugh, she knows why. Oprah has to ask.

"I'm not sure what day it was," I admit.

"He'd been at the office for three straight days," Donna clarifies for me.

"Is that normal?"

I try to shrug, but am suddenly racked by nausea and convulsions. It's nothing but dry heaves and coughing, but I can't get it under control. 

My knees come up reflexively as I try to sit upright. Automatically pushing off with my right arm, I can feel the stitches rip out and the blood start to flow. I can't stop coughing. I can't breathe. Oh shit, I pulled the fucking IV out.

Thomas and Melissa are at my side in a flash. Melissa starts to shove something in the IV line before she realizes it's come out.

Donna's pressing down on my shoulder to staunch the blood flow and I'm curling up on my side around her, gasping for air.

***

Bruce appears out of nowhere with a syringe and Josh is out in an instant, but his body still spasms.

"Bad day?" Bruce asks.

Two people suddenly appear with a gurney and I realize that I'm covered in blood. Josh pulled out all of the staples in that shoulder. They're going to have to take him to surgery to fix it.

"Back to ICU?" I ask with trepidation.

Bruce shakes his head. "No. We've probably been pushing too hard. We'll bring him back up here and ease off the physical therapy, change the drug routine a bit. He'll be fine."

It's not until CJ wraps her arms around me that I break down and start to cry.

***

I talk to Oprah while Donna is in the bathroom changing clothes. They'd like to go ahead and interview her now. I'm a little uneasy asking her to do this. Much to my surprise, she agrees.

***

I have no idea why I agreed to do this. Probably because I want to lash out at somebody, anybody and this seems as good away to do it as any. Putting the microphone back on, I sit cross-legged in the middle of the stripped bed. I realize I'm probably going to have to admit to some things that even CJ doesn't know about yet.

The first part of the interview is background information: where I'm from, how I joined the campaign, how Josh ended up hiring me. I guess they've now heard that story often enough to believe it.

"Who told you happened?"

"Hector Gonzalez came and got me right after he called the police." CJ is standing behind Oprah; I can see her face pale.

"Mr. Gonzalez is the man who heard the commotion in the alley?"

"Right. I had the windows closed because I was cold, so I didn't hear anything."

"You and Josh live in the same building?" She's trying to connect the dots.

"Josh and I live together." My statement just sort of hangs out there.

"You live with your boss?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds sort of trashy. Josh and I have been seeing each other for about two years. Leo McGarry has known the situation the entire time, as has the President. We're allowed to continue to work together as long as we keep our personal relationship out of the office," I shrug.

"Nobody else knew?"

"We keep our personal life at home. In the West Wing, Josh is the Deputy Chief of Staff and I'm his assistant. My job is to do research, answer phones, set-up meetings and keep Josh's feet on the planet Earth. From day one, we've been more than a little unconventional. We're both single adults, nobody is committing adultery here." I fiddle with the ring on my right hand. It was Josh's grandmother's; he gave it to me as a betrothal gift.

"What did you find when you got down to the alley?"

God, how do I describe this so they understand what it was like? Josh was awake and all he kept asking me was why. Why someone would do this to him. He knew what had happened. I can't close my eyes and not see him covered in blood and begging me to help him. 

"Josh laid out on a wooden cross. Like the ones the Klan uses? They had tied his feet to it and used a railroad spike to nail one of his shoulders to the wood. He was covered in blood, but he was sort of awake, but not very coherent. By the time we got to the hospital he was unconscious."

"What happened at the hospital?"

"After the shooting, we had a medical power of attorney drawn up, along with a living will. I had to call his mom in Florida while he was in surgery. When she got here, we determined that the situation met the criteria in Josh's will for us to terminate life support." I stop to draw a shaky breath. "They disconnected everything and a couple of minutes later he started to breathe on his own."

"What's this like for you?"

"I haven't had time to think about it. Dealing with this," I motion around me, "takes every ounce of energy I have. Wondering whether it will be a good day and we'll make progress or if it will be a bad day and we'll take a few steps backwards is the hardest part."

"Is Josh going back to work?"

I close my eyes, snatches of arguments running through my mind. "I have no doubts that, once he's able, Josh will go back to work."

***

The House shelved the bill until Josh was released from the hospital six weeks later. The leadership wanted him in attendance for the vote. I helped him into the well, where we were technically not supposed to be. He was still very weak; still covered in bruises. He still couldn't talk very well; his left shoulder was still stapled together and strapped to his chest. He was, however, still alive.

We both spent a lot of time talking to Stanley since the television interview and are pretty much on solid mental ground. The Oprah thing was incredibly well received. They cut out most of the gory stuff, Josh bleeding like a stuck pig, screaming his head off and the like, but America got an up close and personal look at the consequences of hate crimes.

Josh and I sat on the steps of the dais with several staffers and interns to watch the vote. It was a roll call vote and the entire House assembled for it, rather than straggle in and out as is the norm. 

It passed 435 to 0. When the voting was over, every single member of the House made their way over to us and shook Josh's hand.

"When are you heading back to work?" was repeated over and over again from friends and adversaries alike. Josh's rasped reply was 'when the doctors release him to and not a day later.'

That day comes two weeks after the House vote. Two and a half months after he walked out of the West Wing, Josh walked back in.

***

3 months after I went back to work, Donna gave birth to our son, Zachary Nathaniel Lyman. 

We married shortly thereafter in a private ceremony surrounded only by our closest friends and family.

Thirteen years later, on the anniversary of the attack and in celebration of Zachary's bar mitzvah, I arrange a quiet visit to Poland for he and I, fulfilling in life a promise I made in death.

A promise I will honor four more times, as I return here with each of my sons.

So they understand and never forget. 


End file.
